Dinner at 221B
by scribblingnellie
Summary: What is Sherlock up to? He's invited Molly and Greg round to Baker Street for dinner, but he has no intention of sticking around. What happens over candlelight, good food and coffee between two close friends? A new story featuring my two favourite characters - definitely ship it!. Enjoy. First story in the Tentative series.
1. Matchmaker

_Greg_

'Doesn't it bother you, Greg?'

'What, that she might still fancy you? No.'

'Why not?'

'Because I'm in love with her.'

Here, Sherlock assumed his confused face. He'd been using that one a lot of late. Greg stubbed out his cigarette on the wall, pushing himself up off it and facing his friend.

'There'll always be a part of Molly that cares about you, worries about you. I mean, we all do Sherlock.'

Smirking, Sherlock passed the pint glass back to Greg.

'Seriously, we do. I care about you, you irritating bastard. Everything we went through after I found you in that alleyway, unconscious, half-dead...'

'I do...' Sherlock hesitated.

'I know.' Greg cleared his throat, looking out over the Thames.

'I can't be... I can't ever be what Molly deserves,' Sherlock said, 'she knows me, she sees that. But you... you can be.'

Swigging the last of his bitter, Greg slung his arm around the consulting detective's shoulder.

'I hope so.'

* * *

><p><em>Molly<em>

'Why am I here again?'

'Dinner. I've invited you round for dinner.' Sherlock spun on his heels, arms taking in the kitchen of 221B as though having a dinner party was the most normal thing in the world for him to do. 'That's what friends do, isn't it?'

Molly looked at him sternly. 'What are you up to?'

Squirming ever so slightly under her accusing tone, Sherlock shrugged. 'Why would I be up to anything? I'm doing normal friend-like stuff and inviting my friends round for dinner.'

'So why's the table only set for two? Why are there candles in your flat? And why is there Moonlight Sonata playing in the background?'

'Oh, yes that. Now...'

'Sherlock, you never want to have dinner with me, so who else is coming?' Molly shook her head at his puppy dog expression. 'Yes, you are that obvious, sometimes.'

Dropping his sad eyes, Sherlock turned serious, placing his hands on her shoulders. Molly felt her heart give a little skip, just a shadow of one. Every now and then, he could still have that effect on her.

'Molly, I know that you once thought, maybe us... we could...'

Stiffening, she shook his hands off, stepping away from him. Why did it still hurt? In the little corner of her heart, why did it still hurt?

'Not anymore. I moved on while you were gone. I don't think about you like that anymore. I can't.'

'And I am sorry about Tom. Truly,' he added as she snapped her head back to stare at him.

'So what's all this for?'

The doorbell rang. Molly looked over at Sherlock and then her eyes wandered back to the door opening onto the landing. Voices floated up from the front door below - Mrs Hudson and her bright, cheerful greeting and one other. One friendly, warm familiar voice.

'Sherlock?'

'Molly, trust me.'

Steps sounded on the staircase. Coming into view as he reached the turning, Molly caught his eyes. And he smiled at her. Almost like a school boy, a grin spreading across his care-worn face. Clean shaven care-worn face, she noted.

'Hi there, Molly, you look lovely. Sherlock,' said Greg as he stepped through the doorway, nodding in his friend's direction as he stopped by her, 'We the first here, then?'

'You're all here, now,' said Sherlock, grabbing his Belstaff from the hook on the back of the door.

'What?' Greg looked between Molly and Sherlock, a little confused.

Spinning Molly around to face the kitchen, Sherlock swung his coat on.

'There's drinks on the side there...'

Wrapping his scarf round his neck.

'..and Mrs Hudson has the rest under control.'

Grinning at them as he grabbed the door knob.

'She should be up with starters in half an hour, so make yourselves at home... and do whatever it is people do when they have dinner together.'

Stepping out onto the landing, he pulled the door closed behind him. Leaving Molly and Greg standing there, in the front room of 221B as the whirlwind that had been Sherlock Holmes was gone.

Opening his mouth to say something, Greg stopped. Looking around him, at the closed door, at the candles and back at Molly.

'Is this... has he just...?'

Molly stood looking at him. He wasn't in on it?

'What?' Greg tilted his head, his expression still looking slightly baffled.

'You didn't...' Now Molly stopped and took in the scene around her once more. Sherlock had made quite an effort, and she had to admit she was impressed. 'You didn't know about this?'

'Know about what? Sherlock said come round for dinner.'

'He said the same to me.' Nodding her head in the direction of the kitchen, Molly smiled.

And Greg finally looked properly at the table. His eyes took it in, the two place settings, the candles, posh napkins, nice wine glasses.

'Oh.'

Seconds passed, as they looked at each other. Molly saw his expression change, confusion gave way to happiness. His smile came back. Slipping his coat off, slinging it across the chair by the desk, Greg smoothed back his hair.

'May I get you a drink then?' And he offered her his arm.

Molly looked down at it, then back up to his face and into his eyes, his rather handsome looking eyes. 'You really didn't know?'

'Honest Molly, I didn't know. I mean if you're uncomfortable, you don't...' he added quickly as she hesitated again.

'No, no.. it's ok. It's just.. why would Sherlock want us to have dinner together?'

And suddenly she realised. Greg's smile gave it away, as he shyly turned his head away from her. The thought came rushing upon her, making her cheeks glow a little pinker. Slipping her hand into the crook of his arm, Molly smiled up at him. He really did have lovely eyes. Why had she not noticed that before?

'I'd love a drink, Greg.'


	2. Small Talk

_Starter: Tomato, basil and mozzarella bruschetta_

_Molly_

It looked good, it smelled good. It was probably fine. Molly giggled at Greg's expression.

'Sherlock knows people. He's probably just called in a favour,' she said.

'Probably... but you know what he's like.'

This made her laugh even louder. 'Pretty sure he's not trying to poison us. He couldn't, he needs us too much.'

Looking up, Greg's eyes caught hers. The grin started slowly and then spread, a small chuckle escaping from him, shaking his shoulders. She liked to see him laughing. It suited him, looking happy. He'd been a lot happier since the divorce, since Sherlock was back. And he looked so handsome when he was happy.

'God, what are we like,' he said, picking up his cutlery, still grinning. 'He has that effect on people...oh, sorry, Molly, I didn't mean it like that...'

Knife poised over her bruschetta, Molly stopped. She felt Greg watching her. Shaking her head, she met his eyes.

'It's ok.' Smiling, she speared the piece of bruschetta. She was here for dinner with Greg, the past could stay were it was.

Smiling back, he chewed on a mouthful. 'Actually, this is rather good. I do love Italian food.'

He was steering the conversation onto safer ground. Molly looked at him over her forkful of starter. Busying himself with cutting another piece, she watched his fingers, wrapped gently around his knife and fork.

'Have you ever been? To Italy,' she asked before crunching down on the mouthful on the end of her fork, savouring the delicate yet perfect mix of flavours.

'Once, long time ago... pre-divorce...'

'Oh... I'm sorry, I...' Molly brought her hand up to her mouth, her fork forgotten on the table, 'I'm sorry.'

Reaching for his wine glass, he took a slow sip of the white wine, avoiding her eyes.

'That's all right. I'm just not really good at small talk,' he said, as he placed the glass back down on the white cloth, 'how do people do it? What do they talk about?'

The confused look on his face, as he ran a hand over his hair, rubbing the back of his neck, made her heart skip a little. An experienced Detective Inspector, who had seen so much in his work, was stumped on small talk.

'I think they talk about the weather and their job and what they're doing at the weekend.'

Molly chased a piece of tomato around her plate before catching it with her fork. Lifting her eyes to his, she saw him grinning again. He really did look like a schoolboy when he did that, and Molly couldn't stop herself from grinning back.

'Oh, well, that I can do. This weekend I'm working, both late shifts. You?'

'Yep, in the morgue all weekend. Late shifts. Any good cases lately?'

'Well, there was the missing jewellery designer, whose flat had been ransacked and a ransom note left behind.'

Greg's face lit up; he'd obviously found his comfort zone. Molly knew how that felt.

'Did you find them?'

'Mounted a manhunt, the search area widened several times and would you believe it, they waltz into their local station three days later, not a scratch on them.'

'What happened?'

'They got bored.'

'Bored?'

'Of pretending to be kidnapped,' said Greg, pushing his empty plate away, 'they did it for the money.'

'Seriously?'

Nodding, he leaned forward, his finger to his lips, lowering his voice. 'Though, of course, don't tell anyone. Charges still pending and all that.'

Molly found herself leaning towards him, eyes locked with his. 'Not a word. Promise.' And she felt her breath catch when he winked at her.

* * *

><p><em>Main Course: Linguine with prawns and rocket. <em>

_Greg_

So far, so good. He was getting the hang of small talk and Molly hadn't made a dash for it when they'd both realised that Sherlock had set them up for a quiet, cosy dinner for two.

As Mrs Hudson shut the door behind her, Greg watched Molly lean forward, eyes closed, to catch a smell of the rather delicious looking food that had just been put in front of her.

'Oh, Molly, your hair, it's...' Greg reached across the table to brush the strand away as it fell across the linguine.

Seeing her hesitate, he quickly pulled back his hand. Small talk, he told himself.

'So how's work then?' Greg asked her.

'Busy, as always.' She smiled as she speared a prawn, 'Had a footballer in the other day.'

'Oh, really? Anyone I'd know?'

'I've no idea!' Molly laughed gently. 'Sorry. Though his knees, poor thing, he'd had several anterior cruciate ligament tears and subsequent operations. Must have been painful. Do you still play?'

She'd remembered. It'd been a conversation they'd had one early morning at the morgue, over the corpse of a rugby player. That she'd remembered what they'd talked about made him smile.

'Occasionally they draft me into the team, when they're desperate and short on numbers. It's true what they say – coppers are getting younger. I think I must be the oldest one on the team'

'Then be careful. His knees looked like a car crash.'

'Promise. Need to take care of myself now I'm getting older.'

'Oh, Greg, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that!' Molly sounded mortified. 'I just meant...'

He watched the gorgeous soft blush spread across her cheeks. She was beautiful.

'It's ok. Just teasing. Anyway, I spend more time watching football than playing it, so don't worry.'

Molly tucked her head down, concentrating on her plate. Greg could have just sat and watched her all night. The way her eyes sparked when she smiled, her face lighting up when she talked about her job. This was the woman he'd fallen for. The smart, intelligent, happy, beautiful pathologist. And here he was sitting down to dinner with her.

'So, you play any sports?' he asked, proffering the wine bottle.

Molly shook her head, covering her wine glass. 'Not really the sporting type me.'

'Ah, so you were one of those who loved their books, always to be found in the library?'

She nodded. 'Yep. Give me a quiet corner of the library over a shouty PE teacher and those awful skirts any day. Actually I still love my books.'

'When do you find time to read?'

'Oh, I fit it into those occasional few hours here and there when I find myself at a loose end.'

'Not many of those.'

'No. But that's the nature of our jobs.'

'True. But would we want it any other way?'

Molly paused at his words. She looked at him, thoughtfully. To Greg, his job meant long hours, late nights and the end of his marriage. Would he have it any other way?

'Honest answer, Greg?' she asked him.

Holding his breath, he felt himself pulled into her eyes. 'Yes, honest answer.'

'All the things that have happened...the people who've become part of it...' She picked up her wine glass, slowly draining its contents, '... no. I wouldn't have it any other way.'

Greg pushed his half eaten dinner to the side, placing his hand close to hers, just a small gap separating their fingertips

'Neither would I, Molly.'

Looking down at his hand, she hesitated. Her fingers stretched out, Greg kept his hand there, watching hers. But she didn't connect with his. Settling her fingers back against the white cloth, Molly slid her hand back across the table. Greg slowly let go of the breath he'd been holding. The moment broken, he pulled his hand back.

'So,' he said quietly, 'pudding or coffee?'

'Oh, coffee. Please.'

Pushing his chair back, Greg placed his napkin onto the table and picked up his plate. Molly laced her fingers in front of her, her eyes fixed on them.

'Thank you.' Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, as he picked up her plate.

'I'll just take these down to Mrs Hudson.'

Nodding, she took a sip of her water. Greg, plates stacked in one hand, reached for the door knob, casting his eyes back over his shoulder. Molly was still looking down at her hands, clutched around the glass.

Slow it down, he told himself, slipping out the door, slow it down.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading! I've got the next couple of chapters planned out - hoping to write them up soon. I love writing Molly and Greg, there's just something wonderful about them as characters!<strong>


	3. Coffee and Confessions

**_Thank you so much for the lovely reviews. This chapter started with a particular intention and began following its own path as I wrote it! Hope you enjoy it. PS. I've been through and made a few adjustments after publishing it - finally got a few of those sentences straightened out that were bugging me!_**

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><p><em>Molly<em>

Running her fingers gently across the spines, Molly admired Sherlock's book collection. Some titles she already had, others she'd never heard of. She might just have to borrow one or two. Turning back to his desk, she smiled when she saw the note cards. He'd kept them, his best man speech notes. Not that Sherlock was sentimental. He did everything for a reason. Setting her and Greg up for dinner, that wasn't being sentimental. So what was he trying to tell her? That he wasn't right for her, but maybe there was someone else who was?

Footsteps sounded up the stairs. Sherlock knew something and maybe she should trust him on that? Molly watched Greg as he mounted the last few steps, tray held in front of him.

'Hey, Molly. Sorry it took so long.' He paused in the doorway, as Molly twisted her hands together. 'Mrs Hudson does love a chat. Table or sofa?'

'Umm...' She hesitated. Table too formal, sofa too intimate? Did it really matter? 'Sofa.'

A smile playing across his mouth, Greg set the tray down. 'Promise I'll behave myself.'

'You're always a gentleman.'

'Thank you.' He looked up at her, tilting his head in that rather endearing way, 'I hope I am. Oh, and there's those little fancy biscuits too.'

'Amaretti,' said Molly as she stepped round the coffee table, spotting the little rounds on the plate.

'Oh yeah.' Greg smiled as she tucked herself into the other end of the sofa.

'Mmm, it smells rather good.'

'Some posh blend, I think.'

'Not your usual then?' teased Molly.

'Well, no, not saying I don't drink nice coffee. I'm sure there's a coffee plunger in my house somewhere... possibly.'

Coffee plunger. She suddenly remembered that Tom's coffee plunger was still at her flat. Cupboard on the right of the stove. He liked proper coffee. What was she supposed to do with it?

'Molly?'

She snapped her head back up. 'What?' And then realised she'd been staring off into space, while Greg was sat patiently waiting.

'Oh, sorry..' she smiled sheepishly, taking the cup he offered her, 'miles away there.'

'What were you thinking about?'

'Tom. Sorry.. I didn't mean to just blurt that out. I...'

Greg paused. 'Not a problem. I am sorry. About what happened.'

'It all seems so stupid. I mean, I really don't have much luck with men... oh, ugh, honestly, listen to me. Feeling sorry for myself. That's not something I usually do.'

'You were engaged, it's going to hurt.'

'I know. But I just keep thinking - why did I? What was I doing?' Molly stopped, taking a deep breath. Part of her knew why, if she brave enough to admit it. 'Actually, to be honest, I do know why. Even when I was with Tom, just being together, god, even the sex, I did sometimes think of Sherlock. Though, only at the beginning, mind! I don't want you thinking I'm weird or anything...'

Greg was fighting back a grin. She couldn't help smiling along.

'Ok, that does sound a little weird. It was just... I don't know...Tom and I, it just sort of bumbled along and I kept telling myself it was a good thing, that we were good. Then Sherlock came back.'

Molly stopped, cup halfway to her lips. That feeling, the shock and the jump her heart gave when she saw his reflection in her locker mirror, when she knew he was back and it all had to be faced. It all came back to her, just as vivid.

'Molly?'

Looking up, she was caught in his lovely eyes, staring back at her as he leaned forward.

'Sorry. Remembering...' Molly clutched her cup. 'He has that effect doesn't he? I missed having him around. I'd look up in the lab and realise he wasn't there and it felt empty. It was always nice to see you there, Greg. Thank you.'

'That's ok. Quite happy to pop by, I was worried about you. The way you felt about him and all, I just wanted to make sure you were ok.'

'I was a bit obvious, wasn't I? Not that I'm wishing I hadn't been, I did care about him. I still do. And I still feel guilty,' said Molly, leaning back against the sofa.

'Guilty about what?' Greg turned himself sideways, head on his hand as he rested his elbow on the back of the sofa.

'For knowing he was alive when everyone else didn't.'

'No, Molly.' And he slid himself along the sofa, stopping beside her, close, their knees almost touching. 'Don't ever feel guilty.'

'But I do. Sometimes I feel like I never want to stop apologising, that I...'

'You don't need to apologise for helping him.'

'I feel like I should.'

'Why?'

'Because you were all devastated, you were all so upset. And I knew... I knew he wasn't dead.' Trying to stop the tears forming in her eyes, Molly wiped the back of her hand across them.

'Oh, hey, Molly.' And then Greg was taking her hand, folding it into his. The warm, gentle touch made her fingers tingle.

'Seeing him there on the stretcher when they wheeled him in, covered in blood, I thought for just a second...' Pausing, she laced her fingers though his, feeling him squeeze her hand. 'And then of course, he got up, as though he hadn't just jumped off the roof. He didn't know what to do with himself, all hyped up and couldn't calm down. I can still see him, his face, his eyes... I think he just wanted to run out and tell John it was all ok.'

That image of Sherlock, desperate, nervy, electric, it still came to her so clearly. She remembered the blood dripping down his face, onto his coat; the sound of the squash ball hitting the floor and tumbling away. And his eyes; wild and distressed. She almost did have to hold him back from going straight out to John.

'Molly.' And she felt his hand softly touch her shoulder, his thumb brushing against her neck. Being so close, in those silent few seconds, hearing him breath in, she felt her heart stop. 'What you did, it was the right thing. You saved his life, you saved our lives.'

'It didn't feel like the right thing. When you and John found out that I'd lied, that I'd known he was alive...I hated myself.'

'I was never angry with you.'

'No?'

'Of course not. How could I be? I knew you cared about him. It made sense that he'd ask you to help him.'

'...thank you.'

'You're welcome. Anytime.'

They fell into silence. Extracting his hand, Greg reached for the biscuits, offering the plate to Molly. Taking one, she sneaked a look at him as he turned back to pour himself a coffee. That little feeling, tugging at the corner of her mind as she watched him. Was Sherlock right?

'Molly...' Greg hesitated, moving away from her, back against his corner of the sofa. 'There's probably never a right time to say this...I just want to be honest with you. I... god, I'm no good at all this.'

Placing her cup onto the coffee table, Molly turned to face him, crossing her legs underneath her. 'Yes you are, Greg. Be honest with me.'

And the look he gave her - scared and hopeful - made her heart stop again. How had she not noticed before?

'I like you, Molly. I like being around you. I want to be around you. Do you... would you like to do this again? I mean not just tea over a case at the morgue, but us, just us – no work, no cases, no Sherlock. I mean if you don't want to, that's ok, after everything with Tom and all that...'

Though he didn't look as happy at that thought as he sounded. Molly moved towards him along the sofa so that they were side by side. Feeling the warmth as their legs touched, she took his hand again, lacing their fingers together. Greg kept his eyes locked with hers, only looking down to their hands when Molly pulled them into her lap. Did she want to? Should she trust what she was thinking, what she was feeling about this man next to her?

'Molly? Would you give an old policeman a little hope?'


	4. Dancing

**_Final chapter, at last! This one took a while forming itself. Got there in the end and though shorter than the others, seems to say everything that's needed. Well, I hope it does. Many thanks for the lovely reviews, which have been very encouraging! Hope you enjoy reading it. There's a possible sequel already brewing in my mind. x_**

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><p><em>Piano Concerto No. 1 in E minor, Op. 11, Romanza by Chopin, transcribed by Balakirev.<em>

_Greg_

'You're not old Greg.'

'50, Molly. And some days I feel it.'

Still sat with her leg pressed against his, Molly stared at him. 'Seriously, you're not old. Been around the block a few times maybe...'

'Hey, cheek, young lady.' His hand squeezed hers tighter as he grinned at her.

A soft laugh escaped her. 'I'm not that young.'

'Fifteen years younger, Molly, that's young to me.'

'Does it bother you?'

'It did, me being older and married...' Hearing her intake of breath, he hesitated. 'Sorry.'

Looking down at their hands, still in her lap, Greg wanted to tell her. Right then, he wanted to tell how he really felt. But that wouldn't be fair to Molly. Pulling his hand from hers he stood up, slowly moving across the room. He felt her watching him as he ran his fingers over Sherlock's messy desk, his back to her.

'How long...' Molly stopped. He heard her shuffling on the sofa. '...Greg... why didn't you say?'

'I couldn't. It wasn't right.' He turned to face her, leaning against the desk. She was beautiful. And she was looking straight back at him. 'Me and the wife, we'd separated, but I was still married. And you were in love with him, with Sherlock.'

'How long?'

'Since that Christmas party. Well, the cab home anyway.'

'And you didn't say anything?'

'It never seemed like the right time. Things just kept happening. The divorce. Sherlock, those two years. Then Tom…' Her eyes never left him as Greg struggled with his words. He really was no good at this kind of thing. 'I knew you just saw me as a friend. That it was Sherlock you liked.' That gorgeous pink blush was sneaking back across her cheeks. 'Things weren't straight forward and I just thought it'd be safer to stay back. I figured it'd probably sort itself out eventually and maybe...'

He stopped. Maybe what?

Those times they'd been together, Greg remembered every detail. That Christmas party and sharing the cab home, falling in love with her as they talked; in the corridor at Barts, when Mycroft had refused to let him to see Sherlock's body and she'd hugged him to her as he cried; John and Mary's wedding, his arm across the back of her chair, Molly inching closer to him and away from Tom, the dance they shared. Whatever it was – circumstance, mutual friends, hidden feelings – that kept them close by each other, Greg had always hoped that Molly would feel as he did. He hoped, but he didn't know. But then what was the point of over-thinking any of it. If it happened, it happened; if it didn't, well they were close friends, and that was not a bad thing.

'Anyway, sorry, getting a little deep there. Enough of this talking.' Pushing himself off the edge of the desk, he offered her his hand. 'Dance with me?'

In the few seconds Molly thought about it, Greg watched her face light up with that lovely smile of hers.

'You do like a dance don't you, Inspector Lestrade.' Stepping over to him, she reached out.

Taking her hand gently, he brought it to rest against his chest. Hearing her breath catch, he slipped his other hand around her waist pulling her slowly closer to him.

'With you as a partner Miss Hooper, I love a dance.'

As she leaned against him, Greg rested his hand in the small of her back. He felt her start to move slowly to the music, tucking herself further into him, bringing her head down against his shoulder, her hand curving tighter around his waist. Gently, he brushed his lips against her forehead. Her hair, tumbling loose over her shoulders and down her back, tickled against his neck. Greg let himself get lost in that moment. Forgetting about work, the divorce, everything really. Except for the woman he held, her breathing quiet against his chest.

'This is nice,' Molly said into his shoulder.

'You're having a good time?'

'I am.' Lifting her head, she reached up to rub her thumb across his cheek, tracing his jawline. 'I'd love to do this again.'

'Honest answer?' He could feel his heart turning over at the thought.

'Yes. Honest answer.' And she placed a light kiss on his cheek, letting her hand rest on the nape of his neck. 'Though preferably not here.'

'So yours or mine then?' Greg grinned at her, feeling like a 16 year old all over again.

Molly raised her eyebrows. And kissed his other cheek.

'Thank you,' he said, pushing her hair back off her face, his fingers brushing her cheek.

'For what?' Molly tilted her head at him, smiling.

'For a little bit of hope.'

* * *

><p><strong>Update: The music which I've quoted was playing as I wrote this piece. The recording I have is by James Rhodes (Jimmy: Live In Brighton) and his description of it as a love letter from a teenage Chopin (aged 19 when he wrote it) to one of his crushes made me feel like it should be definitely be playing in the background as Molly and Greg dance together!<strong>


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